


His Eyes Have All The Seeming of a Demon's That is Dreaming

by TheSoundOfHerWings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Darklock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoundOfHerWings/pseuds/TheSoundOfHerWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can take him to his breaking point. He can destroy John. And then he can put him back together again more beautifully than anyone ever has. Is that love? Sherlock doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Eyes Have All The Seeming of a Demon's That is Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jana](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jana), [Yan-yan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Yan-yan), [My hedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+hedgehog).



> This is a short-ish Darklock that I did for one of my best friends, at her request. I really had no idea what I was doing, but enjoy!

1\.   
Sherlock watches the body flailing in the water. He cocks his head. Interesting. Frantic movement. Then less frantic. Frantic again. He feels his fingers becoming prunes, and retracts them. Finds a notepad. Pen. "Death is fickle."

2\. He keeps the notepad hidden because his mask is infallible. He hears birdsong coming from his room. His minds whirs for a moment. It has landed on a new experiment. 

3\. John is out. Working. Helping people. Healing them. Sherlock laughs to think if he knew. He crosses to his room and he and the raven he keeps regard each other. The perch that it has been allowed is crude and bare. Sherlock copies his head swivels. Gains its trust. He must do this every time he wants to experiment. He will need to do it again, after. His steps are quiet as they approach, and the raven doesn't know what to make of him. Not today. The bird never knows, but he always stays. A picture of loyalty. Sherlock almost laughs until he remembers why he doesn't. His laugh is sharp like knives and it cuts, rather than soothes. He doesn't want to scare his pet away, so instead he reaches his long arms out and soothes feathers down. He wonders if the resulting birdsong sounds different, when it's calling for help, than when it's pleading for love. 

4\. Sherlock has cleaned the mess and has given the bird a new perch. Just for tonight, he tells the creature as it nips longingly at him. He wonders again if this is consistent among all species or if it is only the avian family. 

5\. He is on the couch when John comes home. He has surrounded himself with the usual case studies and he measures John's steps up to the doorway. He must be careful about this. John has stayed longer than the others. He wonders if John is wired different from the rest of the human race. He places a strategic groan into the air, breaking it up with syllables. "Booooo-red," he drawls. John rolls his eyes. He wonders if he could make his eyes roll a different way. Maybe someday he will try. 

6\. He watches John move. Is he wired different? Sherlock leans forward. He wants to peel back the skin on John's back and take apart his nerves one by one. He wants to stimulate them and see what twitches and what makes him twitch. He stands and walks over, looks over John's shoulder. Reminds himself to relax. It would be a shame, he thinks, to dispose of such tanned, soft skin. He thinks he would like to wear it someday. The good doctor is always saying he lacks empathy. John looks back. Sherlock watches and resists the impulse to lean forward and sniff. John's eyes dilate and Sherlock is alight with glee. Good, John is attracted to him. Very good. John raises his eyebrows and licks his lips and Sherlock curls back his mouth. John thinks that Sherlock is attracted to him. John only flinches slightly when Sherlock smiles. Very good progress, indeed. 

7\. Another experiment forms in his mind. 

8\. John asks Sherlock what he wants for dinner. Sherlock doesn't answer and John gets upset. Sherlock eats. Death isn't the only thing is fickle, Sherlock realises. Love is also fickle. He tries to define love. He finds he can't. He huffs. John thinks that Sherlock dislikes eating. Sherlock is impatient. He wants to wear John now. 

9\. It is Saturday. John's pupils dilate more when Sherlock comes close, but he still has to wait. He takes the bird's superfluous perch away. He coos as if protesting. Sherlock makes him stop. The noise irritates him. 

10\. John asks why there are feathers everywhere. He is leaning over Sherlock as he surveys the hallway. It makes Sherlock excited. He hides his erection simply because John is not ready to see it yet. Sherlock retires to his room and pretends that every brush of his groin against the cloth of his trousers is not agonising in the best way. The bird hangs his head as Sherlock enters and as Sherlock climbs into the hardly-used bed, he pats the covers next to him and clucks out a simple raven noise. The bird perks up and ruffles over. He falls to the floor. Hurt wing. He cries out and Sherlock frowns deeply. The thing he once labeled as unhappiness blossoms in his stomach. He moves and picks up the bird, and touches it to his chest. Death is fickle. He needs to be more careful. 

11\. They have a case. Sherlock stops thinking about his experiments, but he does not stop thinking about John. 

12\. He wonders what John means when he says 'he's not gay.' Does he mean that he has an aversion to having intercourse with Sherlock? Does he have an aversion to being stretched open? Starting at the crown of his forehead. Sherlock would start with a soft kiss, and then pull his lips back almost like a smile, to bare his teeth. He would attach and move downward, bringing the skin with him. He would like to see the inside of John. He must. He has to. Sherlock can take him to his breaking point. He can destroy John. And then he can put him back together again more beautifully than anyone ever has. 

13\. Is that love? Sherlock doesn't know. 

14\. He's gotten something wrong again. As the anger waves roll off of John visibly, Sherlock knows that it would be bad to lean forward and inhale them. He knows it would stop John suddenly, but only for a moment. He has no wish to make John angrier, simply more simple. He wants to reduce John down to just the muscle and bone that he is. He wonders if you can see someone's soul in the way that their blood pumps and keeps fighting even though Sherlock has realised staying alive is hard. And today, he will have to wait. Wait and remember that apparently interrogating children is bad. What else is 'bad' in John's mind? Sherlock will find out. 

15\. When John asks him for the motive of the killer, Sherlock says "death is fickle." John frowns and nods. Concedes. "So are a lot of things, Sherlock," he says and Sherlock's eyes zero in. "Like what?" His voice is sharp and he can feel the glint in his eyes from the way that the room tints red. John doesn't back away. He demands that John tell him. John looks tired. He tells John to lay down, but he doesn't specify where. John chooses his own room. Sherlock growls when he's gone, and waits. 

16\. There isn't another case for a week. In the time of that week, Sherlock has made several advances toward John, both physical and mental. He tests John limits, in more areas than one. By the end of the week, John is happy that Sherlock has another case. He has bruises that spatter his arms, but the marks were accidental. Somewhat. Sherlock only wanted him to have one. In the course of the week, he has pushed his limits, and he realises. 

16.1. Tuesday: John wakes up and Sherlock is in the kitchen. Microscope pushed to his eyes. He studies the way John's footprints sound against the wood. Against the tile. They were soft and inviting on wood and perhaps Sherlock wants to know what they feel like on his lips, on his stomach. They are clipped and short on tile and Sherlock wants to stop them. He wants to push John back to the wood and slip his hands on his feet like socks. Push him over. Crawl on top of him. He focuses on the microscope to stop the train of thought, but even the fast-growing fungus cannot compare with the mystery that is John.

16.2. Wednesday: Sherlock slept Tuesday night and he wakes Wednesday with a headache. He moans into the air and this time it isn't fake. The bird coos next to him and takes a stunted flight. John has patched up his wing after several protests. ('I'm not a vet, Sherlock.' 'Just /fix it/, John.' He didn't ask what happened.) John is already on his way from the kitchen and the bird alights on his shoulder and nips at his ear. "I know," he mutters softly as he enters the room. Sherlock isn't faking the way his face is screwed up in pain, and he clutches at the skin through John's chest when he gets near. John winces but doesn't pull away. Later, Sherlock will always remember that telling show of loyalty. In the face of Sherlock's well-being, John will endure pain. 

16.3 Thursday: Sherlock makes John stay with him. The bird stays obediently on his perch, not straying too close. Sherlock clutches John's chest, his nails digging in. He hopes that he left marks. He hopes when John undresses to shower, the evidence of Sherlock's stress and need for John is physical, permanent and apparent. John has made his headache go away. He studies him when he comes back to check up on Sherlock. His hands errantly brush his chest as if trying not to think about the new appearances. Sherlock smiles and lies. "Still hurts. Make it better." He wants to promise John that he can make it all better. 

16.4 Friday: John fell asleep on him today. John dragged them to Angelo's and on the way back, Sherlock watched his eyes drop with the exhaustion of so many things. Sherlock waits until he's deeply breathing before he noses against John's air and inhales. He wants to bite and swallow the scent right out of his skin. There is a low noise and John's mouth opens slightly. It isn't the noise that Sherlock wants to hear, but it grabs it attention regardless. It is a lamenting moan, a keen that tells all the stories that John will never talk about. Sherlock wonders whether it is fatigue or boredom that brings the nightmares back. He noses against John's forehead but this time it isn't because he wants to take something. Sherlock finds himself trying to push through John's skin and he huffs when he can't and satisfies for letting John drop into his chest slightly. The weight of the man sends a warm feeling through Sherlock. He scraps his teeth along John's neck. The keening stops and Sherlock repeats. John quiets down. When John wakes up, he retracts with a muttered apology slowly. Sherlock smiles. John doesn't flinch this time. 

16.5 Saturday: John spends extra time in the bathroom. Sherlock can hear him shifting over the floorboards. No doubt surveying the scratches on his chest in addition to the teeth marks on his neck. Sherlock can almost see the thought process in John's head, though a wall and two doors separate them. He can see the thoughts flitting in between his eyes. He's asking himself if he minds. Sherlock feels as if he's sitting on a jury, and his sentence is about to be delivered. He feels the air quiver between the matter that holds them apart and he closes his eyes. He has never tried to stop thinking, but he does now. He hands itch to curl around John's neck and mark him. His lips ache to kiss the bruises. He aches to make John his. He waits. Footsteps to his door. A knock. A soft voice. "How do you feel, Sherlock? Do you need me to take a look at your head?" Sherlock smiles and this time John smiles in return. It is the smile of victory. 

16.6 Sunday: Sherlock feels better. He refuses to sleep and John pushes him onto the couch. He stares up with a smirk. There is a quiet moment where they look at the other and truly see. Sherlock sees the soldier and the hero that he would so like to break and heal repeatedly and John sees the man who has come to own him undoubtedly. Neither minds. Sherlock sits through Doctor Who reruns with John that night and makes minimal comments. John glares at him when he does speak and Sherlock is tempted to stand in front of the television. He doesn't want to make John angry, he just needs his attention. He "falls asleep" on John. John doesn't move him. 

16.7 Monday: Sherlock is in his bed when he wakes up. He can still feel warmth where John carried him in. John didn't stay, but he will. Soon. Sherlock plans and he finds that the lull between cases has become infinitely more interesting. The bird cries. He throws food at it and waits for John to made tea. 

17\. That is when Sherlock notices that the raven has become an "it." John has taken his place, and though the raven may think it a blessing, Sherlock forgets to feed it. John has taken to trying to approach the animal cautiously. Sherlock watches with amusement. Then forgets to feed it intentionally. John yells at him. Sherlock shrugs. Lestrade comes in with a case. Sherlock grabs John and pulls him. John's breathing quickens even though he can run for far longer than that without becoming out of breath. Sherlock feels like jumping. And then biting. Tearing. Licking. But not yet. He must wait. 

18\. The case is relatively easy. Lestrade looks at them strange, and pulls Sherlock aside. He tells Sherlock to be careful. Sherlock pouts. Lestrade is the only one who knows about his tendencies. It is rather hard to keep things hidden when high, and Lestrade has seen him high plenty of times. Sherlock starts to walk away and Lestrade detains him. "John's strong, and he's loyal, but he deserves more than what you can give him. You'll hurt him." Sherlock's face falls. He digs his nails into his skin and stalks off without replying. He grabs John as he goes and leaves him sputtering behind him, hurrying to catch up.

19\. How could Lestrade think that Sherlock could hurt John? Sherlock realises that he isn't the most gentle, but he also realises that John has become the most important beating heart that he's ever wanted to squeeze in his hands. When he come home, Sherlock watches John walk upstairs. He feels him shower, shave, and it hits him that John is going on a date. He can't explain the way his chest constricts. He can't breath. He slams into the room and doesn't bother with the trust ritual this time. The bird squawks once and Sherlock watches the black blood drip in between his fingers. John knocks on his door and asks if everything's alright. Sherlock doesn't reply and John walks away. The air is charged with an uncertainty as John leaves. Inside of his fingers, his pulse thuds with the conviction that he knows he shouldn't leave. He dismisses it. He calls out a hesitant goodbye and the door slams and Sherlock is seeing nothing but red mixed with the almost black blood dripping through his fingers and the black feathers that litter the duvet. 

20\. John stays out all night. Sherlock doesn't sleep. His eyes are burning by the time dawn comes but he can't close them. He can't for one second take his eyes off the door. He tries not to imagine John in the arts of some broad with fake breasts and red lips. He tries not to imagine the way John would ever so gently kiss her as if asking permission first to love her. He tries not to imagine him becoming more daring and pushing her onto the bed and hovering over her. Sherlock growls and pulls out the box underneath his bed. The white powder taunts him, and for the first time since John moved in, he doesn't think twice. 

21\. He hasn't taken a hit in years, and he hasn't wanted to in longer, and the first thing he thinks is that he can think about everything at once. Sherlock smiles and rolls his neck to the ceiling, the gentle cooing of the bird - the helpless pleas - go ignored. Sherlock laughs and his voice his deep. He knows, without a doubt that John will come back. He can feel it in his vibrating calcium-bones. He can feel it in the way that he is always pulled to John. He imagines with euphoria that he can feel John's hips snapping back and forth and smirks as he imagines the pleas of the woman to either keep going, or not to stop and how Sherlock wouldn't love to tear her apart and make John watch. Then he would snap his own hips into John and it would be the most beautiful thing John has ever felt. 

22\. Sherlock's shoulders hunch together. Why should John leave the house for sex? Why should John feel the need to go anywhere except to Sherlock for things that didn't involve food or discarding of his waste? Sherlock knows that he is attractive, and he knows that John is attracted to him. He has seen the way John's pupils dilate when he comes too near to him. He had seen the way John wants to back up, and at the same time come ever closer. With a laugh, Sherlock leaves the bird on the cottn duvet and stumbles out to the window in the sitting room to wait. 

23, Sherlock is playing violin when John walks through the door in the morning. The song is fast. He's already broken one string off the mahogany body. He's taken six more hits in the elapsed time. His skin is flushed and his one eye refuses to stop twitching. The light in the room flickers before his vibrating eyelids. He hears the door open. The footsteps pause. Why does John /think/ so loud? Perhaps he's deducing Sherlock's wrinkled gown, tea-stained and hanging off one shoulder. He smirks as John bounces between his feet.The atmosphere goes tense. Oh, good, Sherlock thinks. John's angry. He wants John to be angry. He wants John to feel the burn in his chest and with one shrill note on his violin, he turns. His smirk is apparent, his eyes bloodshot and his nostrils flare with fury. He can smell the sex on John and he steps forward wildly. He needs to get the scent of it off. John steps back, eyes wide. "Christ," he mutters. "You didn't."

24\. Sherlock finally laughs. He's walking toward John and hearing the floorboards creak under him, and he laughs. The sound pierces the veils in the room and he can see John resume his military stance. Oh, he's /scared/. How quaint. How very quaint of the doctor to back away from his flatmate. From the depths of darkness in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock continues to walk forward until they are chest to chest. His violin drops during the predatory walk and he growls in his throat. His voice is elated - more expressive than John has ever heard it when he speaks, and he can't tell if John's eyes darken in lust or anger. "Oh, I did. Obviously I did. Don't you see, John? /Think/. Look! In. My. Eyes," Sherlock growls and completely invades his space.

25\. John doesn't back away. He remembers when Sherlock said: "could be dangerous." He assumed he was talking about cases. "It all makes sense now." His voice is quiet. It's smooth. It's not what Sherlock expects. Sherlock barks laughter again and John doesn't move. His eyes stare, fixed to the wall, and his leg starts to hurt. "Does it? Interesting," Sherlock hisses and he backs John up against the wall. John looks up into his eyes and they lock position like that for moments that cannot be measured. The soldier looking at the demon. Looking into the monster and assessing how much he is worth. "Why?" is the next question from John. 

26\. Sherlock snarls and pushes John into the wall. Their chests are touching, and Sherlock is still in the state of elation. He will remember later why he stays clean. It keeps him in control. In control of his own body processes, but now, there's this. There's a feeling crawling up his throat and into his trembling eyelids. Perhaps it's jealousy. Perhaps it's desire. Sherlock thinks it's that moment before walking into a crime scene. The promise of excitement, of something /new/. He spits the feeling on John and buries his nose behind John's ear. "I can smell her on you," he hisses and he barely suppresses the urge to bite. 

27\. It clicks in John's brain, finally. There is a sharp intake of breath that Sherlock hears and he stills completely, waiting for the verdict while John considers. He knows that John must know everything now. The man isn't a total idiot. Sherlock wants to consume him for a reason, and part of it his not-so-averagely-stunted intelligence. "Sherlock. Back. Now." Sherlock snarls and shakes his head and moves to look at John. "No." John raises his eyebrows and expertly grabs one of Sherlock's arms and twists it behind his back. "You need to work with me here. Sit down," he commands. 

28\. The pain elates Sherlock even further and a small moan slips from his mouth. John pretends that it doesn't bury into his pores and nest there. John pretends that he's completely unaffected as he pushes the now-pliant detective toward the couch and sits him down. Sherlock hates being this far from John, even though he is so close he could reach out with his hand and close the void between them. Sherlock stares up with black eyes, taut eyebrows. He waits for the gentle face to decide his fate. 

29\. Minutes pass and the two measure the amount of the other person inside of them. For Sherlock, John is in his every pore. John is in the pools of his eyes and the exhales of shaky breath at night. In the strangled fingers that look for work and distraction. In the hair that stands up on end when John looks at him. John is the folds in Sherlock's shirt and the eyelids that help him sleep. He is the blood that drips from vein to vein and keeps him breathing. 

30\. For John, Sherlock is the terrifying part of the nightmares he has. Sherlock is the moment of falling right before the silent dark of the room invades his senses as he leaves Afghanistan behind. Sherlock is the comfort of the abyss of fear as it leaves. He is the relief as the rope around his neck slips into the vapor in the air. Sherlock is terrifying, and he is safe. John doesn't know how he does, but the hands that he can see itch to strangle him would balk to kill him. John sighs and sits down next to Sherlock. It is his surrender. He sees Sherlock stare sharply at him. If he has only glimpsed the inside of his flatmate, then he must be very careful. "What are you?" he asks softly, not without fear or malice. 

31\. Sherlock chuckles and leans into John's neck. He feels him stiffen and laughs again. "Don't be so scared, John. I won't...irreparably hurt you," Sherlock smirks. John repeats the question and pushes Sherlock away. When Sherlock snarls, John pushes again, firmer and, frustrated, Sherlock relents. 

32\. "I am a man. A highly intelligent man, probably worth more than all the men in London put together.-" "Sherlock," comes the reprimand. Sherlock shoots a look at John, and drops his eyes. "I am the result of a mind too large for my confines." John contemplates that for a moment. He's always known that, really. He's always known that Sherlock was special. Always something more than simply skin and a bleeding heart. More than what he deals with every day at work. Maybe that's what attracted him to Sherlock in the first place. The sheer difference than anyone he's ever met. "What does that mean?" John asks, rubbing his face. Sherlock stares at the hands that move in the light. How many of them can he bend until they crack, the way John cracks them in the morning when he wakes. John catches Sherlock looking. They share the glance and Sherlock can almost /see/ the way John's pulse speeds up. "Would you like to see?" he asks with a devil's grin. John's Adam apple jumps. His eyes flutter shut. His fists clench. Sherlock watches him defeat the monsters inside of him with keen interest.

33\. "Oh, God, yes," John whispers in a strangled tone. 

34\. He can't deny Sherlock's eyes when they are fixed on him like that. 

35\. Sherlock smiles. Unguarded.

36\. John opens his eyes. Smiles back. Extends his hands toward Sherlock. "Show me," he whispers hoarsely. 

37\. Sherlock feels his own hands reaching out at the command. He tears through the air that separates them to press his nails into John's skin. To hold and claim. The skin that separates them is too much and never enough for Sherlock's endless curiosity. He feels John wince and his eyes travel up his neck, his eyes stab gently at the pulse point that throbs. He raises an eyebrows - asks John if he wants Sherlock to stop. John shakes his head once. Takes a staggering breath. Sherlock digs harder. Tests the waters. The boundaries. Right before he starts to draw blood, John tenses in a way to tell him that this has become "a bit not good." Instantly, his grip lightens up. He brings the calloused fingers and bruised palm to his lips. Keeps John's eyes locked on his. His lips have never brushed anything with so much care as they do the indented skin. John's breath this time is entirely unsteady and Sherlock finds himself falling into it. "How do you know?" Sherlock asks John. It's a simple question, but it carries so much weight. 

38\. "I've always known, Sherlock."

39\. "Even now?" 

40\. "Yeah. Even now."

41\. "And later?"

42\. "There'll be boundaries," John replies, his eyes wandering over Sherlock's face, trying in his own soft way to memorise the life in every crevice. 

43\. "Of course." A worried pause. "How many?" John raises his eyebrow and laughs. He leans forward. He should be scared, or nervous, or, /something/. Shouldn't he? The deep black in Sherlock's eyes aren't the kind of dark that people usually take comfort in. They are the kind of darkness that people run from the entirety of their lives. The unknown catacomb of what come before life, or after death, or any part in between when the lights are suddenly dampened and you find yourself inexplicably and inevitably alone. Sherlock's eyes make John feel like he is clinging to a rope with someone else at the end. The ground below him falls away. And he is at the mercy of hands he cannot see, and cannot fathom. Sherlock's eyes are fear, adrenaline, nausea and John finds himself climbing up the rope. He finds the noose along his neck both loosening and tightening as he crawls toward Sherlock. And if he lets go? Well. Death is fickle. 

44\. John laughs softly. "Just keep me alive and undamaged permanently, yeah? Other than that, well, I'll tell you if I'm uncomfortable with something. You'll have to listen to me. We'll have to compromise." Sherlock huffs, but John smiles. He can recognise when Sherlock is /actually/ put out, and when he's pretending for dramatic effect. "Hey," John says softly. "If I let you experiment with me, will you start picking up the milk? I feel it's only fair, really." Sherlock arches his eyebrows. "I'm letting you kiss me, and God knows what else, really," John says. "You can go to the shop once in a while." Sherlock huffs again, /actually/ put out this time. "Once in a while, John? We run out of milk approximately every three days, and seven hours. That's more than 'once in a while.' " John simply waits, moves his hand around Sherlock's and squeezes. Teasing, tempting. If he's going to give himself completely to Sherlock, Sherlock must be willing to do the same. The other man blinks once. Twice. "...Fine," he concedes and John smiles triumphantly and cuts off Sherlock's next sentence before he can speak. "Yes, even if you're getting the milk, there are still boundaries." Sherlock pouts. John finds it adorable, despite everything else. 

45\. Sherlock returns his attention to John's hands and continues his careful inspection of them. Rough at the pads of his fingers. The heel of his palm. Soft at the dip between his heart- and life-line. Sherlock digs his nail into the softness and measures the pliancy of the skin. It bounces back to its original shape quickly. Sherlock replaces his finger with his lips. Can hear John's breathing increase. Flicks his tongue out. Salty. Sugary from the tea that John made earlier. He swipes his tongue up the wrinkles in the skin and back down. It tastes inherently /John/. Then he moves slowly up John's middle finger, relishing the way it makes John squirm. Wraps it around the pad, the nail, back down. Looks up. Smirks. John wants to wipe the smirk off his face, and only knows one way how. 

46\. Their first kiss isn't anything like either expected. John, for one, never expected one at all. Sherlock has dreamed, and undreamed, and thought about it so many times. He could never get it right. Would John lean this way, or that? He must lean left, because he's left-handed. He leans to the right. John would curl his fingers in Sherlock's hair, considering he's the shorter of them. John's fists his hand in Sherlock's shirt and pushes him back so that he's laying down. Sherlock assumed John would start out gentle, careful. John's tired of waiting. There is nothing careful about the kiss, there is nothing timid about the embrace. It is carnal. It is the collision of two storms, and there is a moment where neither is sure if one is going to destroy the other, or if they are going to blend together and create something stronger. 

47\. Sherlock growls. Claws at John's shoulder. John's hisses and starts to pull away, but Sherlock isn't going to have that. He grips tighter and pushes his lips to John's with a bruising ferocity. John is about to pull away, but then changes his mind. He learns in that moment that there is a difference between telling Sherlock he can handle him, and proving it. "Ow," he breathes, just to let Sherlock know. Sherlock pull back slightly. "Is that you telling me to stop?" He trails his lips to the dip under John's jaw, becomes nauseatingly gentle. John wavers. "...No, suppose not. Just, don't draw blood. At least not tonight." Sherlock moves back up to John's lips, claiming them with a sureness so steady that John is sure, at that moment, that no other lips will ever be kissing him. 

48\. Sherlock is careful with John's bad shoulder. It needs less stimulation to cause feeling than the other. The marks are prominent by the time they stop kissing, and breathing is heavy. John pulls back to his end of the couch. "Why me?" he questions out loud. He knows that he's attractive, but what makes Sherlock latch onto him, rather than anyone else?

49\. Sherlock thinks for a moment. 

50\. "You're an ex-soldier, yet you only have violent tendencies when you need to have them to keep yourself, or others, safe." Sherlock pushes John back and crawls up him. "You're not running away, now. You're not trying to eradicate me, though your whole life you've been trained to kill evil. And yet here I am. And here you are. Why? Why are you so /different/ from the rest?" he hisses in John's face. John stares up at him and doesn't move, doesn't dare to breathe. He carefully traverses Sherlock's mind with his roaming eyes, watching his thought process work. 

51\. It is a plague. The way his mind won't stop spinning and pulling the ends of his temples together. He can't stop thinking and the way he bites down on the sensitive membrane of his lips won't replace the pain between his eyes. The sickness takes hold of him and he grips John to keep him steady. The keep him tethered to life and sanity. "Why you? Why you? Why?" Sherlock hisses, pressing his forehead painfully down on John's chest. He can feel the beating of John's heart seep into his brain. "What's do /different/ about you, John? Why do never react the way I wish you would - the way I expect?" John listens to Sherlock struggle and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to fix it. He sighs and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Because I love you," is his reply. 

52\. Sherlock balks. Love. Love. His mind is stuck on that word. Love. Love. Love. No body has ever said that to him before that he can remember. He has a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows he should say it back, but his first instinct it to move up and bite down on John's bottom lip hard. John cries out. Sherlock doesn't stop biting. He stops only when he feels a trickle of blood drip down onto his waiting tongue. John's face evens out eventually, and he understands. "Not any further than that, Sherlock." The sudden impulse gone, he slumps down, his eyes droop. John tries to move and he snarls a 'no.' John stays. This is the first Sherlock has slept in two weeks. 

53\. When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is that his external pulse is gone. The steady beat under his chest isn't there and Sherlock, not for the first time, wonders if he still exists. He hears rustling to his left and looks over to find John holding the pliant bird on his lap. His short fingers are doing something with the wing. Sherlock doesn't care about the mangled feathers but the way that John's fingers move fascinate him. His pupils dilate. He can almost see the blood pulsing under John's thin epidermis. His breathing quickens and makes John look over. His look is stern. "You've bloodied him up pretty badly," is the short answer. Sherlock tilts his head. "Are you scared?" Pause. "For the bird, yes." 

54\. John convinces Sherlock to let the raven free, once he's healed. John has taken one of the more comfortable perches up to his own room and is letting the bird rehabilitate itself there. Sherlock is only a little angry, and very bored. John isn't weak or squeamish though, and with a few boundaries, Sherlock maps out the molecules of his body and what makes him tick, and throb, and keen. In return, Sherlock tries to lay still as John does his own inspections - infinitely more gentle. Though Sherlock is unable to say that he loves John, it's evident. In the way that he stops his experiments as soon as John exhibits signs of real pain and discomfort. The tea that is made afterward. The gentle caressing that Sherlock has never bothered to experience himself before. It's evident in the way that Sherlock snarls at nearly anyone who will look at John. The way that he makes sure John stays permanently undamaged. The way that their fingers intertwine sometimes just for the comfort of such stabilising contact. The way that Sherlock is constantly pushing John near the edge of the cliff, and uses his steady hands to keep his chest held upward away from the drop. After all, death is fickle, and Sherlock has come to realise that so it love.


End file.
